


Ruffled Feathers

by marchionessofblackadder



Series: The Mother Dove [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:53:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchionessofblackadder/pseuds/marchionessofblackadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Belle is at her wit's end, Mr. Gold teaches her a valuable lesson about handling with care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruffled Feathers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TriplePirouette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriplePirouette/gifts).



> For TriplePirouette, for being such a lovely person. She requested "baby fluff" ages ago, and I forgot I even had this! Here you are, m'dear.

Mr. Gold had to admit, it was a lot easier for his heart to take coming home to his house dismantled and broken into than what awaited him that particularly chilly afternoon.  
  
When he’d unlocked the front door, he hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t thought he should anticipate anything out of the ordinary, yet the sound of crying startled him enough to drop his keys. And it wasn’t just the baby crying, it was the mother too. His chest grew tight and a painful knot lodged in his throat. The door was left ajar as he hurried down the dim hall as fast as he could on his creaky leg, his skin prickling in feverish worry. “Belle? Be-”  
  
Turning the corner into the kitchen, he found her, safe and unharmed.  
  
But very, very flustered.  
  
His pretty young wife sat at the kitchen table as if she’d collapsed into the chair, slumping, her hair tied back with a yellow ribbon, her white blouse marked up with all kinds of… substances, her face flushed and blotchy. She looked up when he came in, and her tears rolled afresh down her cheeks. The baby that lay across her lap was crying, not a wail or a scream, but a pathetic coughing whimper that was just soft enough to be heard but hardly loud enough to disturb a cat.  
  
“I can’t do it,” Belle blurted, as if she’d been holding the words in all day, waiting for him to come home. Frazzled was an understatement today.  
  
Gold knew he should have been more patient, more understanding and given her feelings due respect, but he couldn’t kill the smile that tugged at his lips. He began to take off his coat, the dewy crystals of rain dripping on the hardwood floor as he laid it across the back of the kitchen chair.  
  
“I can’t- I can’t do it, Rum,” she said hopelessly, rocking Amelia as best she could. The little girl was just as flushed as her mother, her face pinched as if in pain, as if on the edge of tears, but her lips remained pressed together. He could see beneath the blanket how tense she was. “I’ve been up with her all night- she just- she’s so _unhappy_ … I don’t know what to do.”  
  
“Well, no one likes being sick,” Mr. Gold reasoned, walking over and slowly, ever so slowly lowering himself onto his good knee beside the chair. He laid his weathered hand across his daughter’s tummy, and could feel the rattling of her little lungs as she whimpered and coughed. “Especially when they can’t sleep.”  
  
Belle wiped her eyes quickly, as if her tears were a bother and not an effect. She sniffled stubbornly. “I’ve tried everything- I’ve bounced her, rocked her, paced the house- I didn’t want to take her outside, it’s so cold, but she’s so hot, too. She’ll take her medicine, but she just won’t sleep.”  
  
Rumpelstiltskin knew many things, but one thing he did know rather well was children. A good man might say they knew how to handle children from raising their own- an unfortunate blot on his character. No, he had learned his trade of dealing with children through the newborns, the little ones, the babes in bassinets and the scampering little imps he bought and sold. He had learned quickly the chill of a child’s fear, the heat of their tantrums, the light of their curiosity, and the weakness of their delicate self-preservation.  
  
And over the years, he knew how to calm, tame, satisfy, and endure each and every one.  
  
“I think I know exactly what this calls for,” he said softly, watching his little Amelia’s pinched face, flush with fever, hot tears puddling in her eyes. “Come with me.”  
  
Mr. Gold stood up, using what little strength he possessed to lean on the table before grappling for his cane, and lead his wife and child to the back door, his hand warm on her lower back. Belle stopped, her eyes going wide. She tucked Amelia’s blanket closer about her, a creamy white cashmere affair with petal pink stitching. “Oh, no, no- we can’t take her outside, it’s too cold.”  
  
“Trust me, dearie,” he murmured, holding the door open for her.  
  
Belle bit her lip, worrying it until it was red, but she followed outside just as well. Her concession made him smile. There was much he knew, living so long as he had, but Belle was usually the one to teach him things-how to cook, how to tend, how to love. It was a rare moment when Rumpelstiltskin found an opportunity to teach Belle something, to share with her some bit of knowledge he had stored away for a rainy day. That it was the delicate nature of tenderness with a child, _their_ child, well, that was even better.  
  
Mr. Gold walked them down the veranda and sat on the old rocking swing. It was damp, but it would do. “Hand her to me,” he said gently, but entirely all business.  
  
Belle laid the babe in his arms, and then sat down beside them on the swing. After she fidgeted to get comfortable, arranging her skirt beneath her knees to keep warm, she watched assiduously as her husband arranged the baby against his shoulder, her little head resting up near his collar and his hand smoothing over her back. With his good leg, he began to rock the swing. The whimpering still continued, as did the slight coughing, but he felt the babe’s face begin to cool. Slowly, the whimpering began to quiet into the softest breathing, congested still, but calmed. Gold glanced at his wife, raising his eyebrows.  
  
“Is she asleep?” he murmured as quietly as he could. He couldn’t see Amelia’s face, afraid to disturb her too much. He continued to stroke the little one’s back lovingly, wishing there were remnants of magic still crackling at those fingertips. He’d love nothing more than to soothe his daughter’s lungs and take away her nasty little cold.  
  
Belle nodded slowly, sniffling and wiping her face. “Yes,” she murmured, pursing her lips. “How did you do that? I tried rocking her and it didn’t work.”  
  
“I’m not rocking her to go to sleep, I was rocking for me,” he grinned slightly, kissing his Amelia’s papery soft cheek that smelled of talc and split peas. Her nimble little hand had closed itself over the wrinkle in his tie. She might as well have had a hold on his heart. The hours he’d spent holding her in such a way was soothing more for him than the child, he imagined. Belle always held her in the crook of her arm so she could gaze at Amelia’s face. Rumpelstiltskin held her chest to chest, enjoying the matching beat of her heart against his.  
  
“The reason she wouldn’t calm down is because you wouldn’t calm down. Fear is contagious, and you reek of it today, my dear,” Mr. Gold smiled slightly. “A rare thing.”  
  
Belle pouted, rubbing her face. She did look so incredibly worn. “I had good reason,” she muttered, sliding over to lay her head on her husband’s other shoulder. “I was afraid I wasn’t doing it right.”  
  
Mr. Gold chuckled before he could think not to, keeping as quiet as he could. “Doing what right?”  
  
Belle looked out at their garden, the flowers shriveled and asleep from winter’s chill. The birdbath dripped with melting ice and rain, and their breath clouded the image like a dream. She laid her hand on her husband’s leg, murmuring, “Sometimes I don’t feel like I deserve this,” she whispered, her breath trembling against the pain in her throat. “Things are harder here than in our world-there’s safety, but there’s so many more complications...so many things I still don’t understand. I don’t feel as though I ever will. And the more I mess up, the more I think…it won’t really work out, will it?”  
  
Mr. Gold listened to Amelia’s congested breathing, her sweet breath warm on his neck, watching their icy garden as it had the remnants of snow and ice washed away by the light rain that was closer to a mist. He looked down at his wife, and hesitated. The truth was, he didn’t know how their futures would play out. He had lost his foresight when they entered the new world, and it was one of the biggest losses of power he’d ever suffered.  
  
“I can’t tell you we won’t lose,” he said, quietly, caressing a wispy chestnut curl away from her face with his free hand. Gold leaned down and brushed his lips to his wife’s hair, murmuring, “But I’ll die before I let anything happen to you.”  
  
Belle’s eyes fluttered closed and she breathed deeply, whispering, “I know.”  
  
Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes too with her words. He wouldn’t tell her of the pain they brought, knowing his protection wasn’t enough to comfort her. And why should it be? He was a coward, the man who ran. His words, no matter how honeyed, would not bring the comfort she sought. She had no reason to take him on his word, knowing what she did about him, about who he was and his nature. He was not a hero, he did not self-sacrifice or bend the knee to spare anyone else. At least he hadn’t been, and he wasn’t even sure that he could. But for Belle, for Bae, for Amelia, he would try to keep that word.  
  
The slow and steady rock of the swing accompanied by the gentle creak of the hinges seemed to quiet the entire world, and Rumpelstiltskin thought that perhaps even the curse was soothed for a time. Belle shifted her head softly against his arm, and whispered, “Sing something, Rum.”  
  
Mr. Gold pursed his lips, wanting to refuse. He didn’t like the sound of his own voice, but it brought a delight and pleasure to Belle for some unknown reason lost on him. She asked him every now and then, and it was the same song every time, an old song his own mother had sung him. He’d even sung it to Bae, a lifetime ago when he was still in his cradle as Rumpelstiltskin sat near at the spinning wheel. His voice was old now, and rougher, but warm like an antique liquor.   
  
But his little Belle was tired, and his little lark was sick, and he would deny either of them nothing. With a tired sigh, he hummed under his breath, “Blow the wind, blow, swift and low, blow the wind o’re the ocean…”  
  
Belle rubbed his leg as she helped him brush the swing in time with the low tune, humming with him to the sound of their shoes sweeping against the wood of the veranda.  
  
The sky darkened, swelling heavy and grey with more clouds, and they knew it was time to go in, but neither moved from their place. Bae would be home from school soon, and Amelia had quieted and fallen asleep against her father’s chest. Belle nodded beside him, her steady breathing telling her husband that she was asleep too. Mr. Gold smiled when he heard her soft sigh of contentment, and, keeping both precious girls beneath his wings, continued to hum his song.


End file.
